


Welcome to the Hellmouth, Now Boarding (Please Attend Your Baggage At All Times)

by templemarker



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch, The Dresden Files - All Media Types
Genre: Airports, Friendship, Gen, Heathrow: the Bonus Level of Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 15:46:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5503538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/pseuds/templemarker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nightingale has a good century or so on him; there's so much yet to learn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Welcome to the Hellmouth, Now Boarding (Please Attend Your Baggage At All Times)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> Happy holidays, DoreyG! I did a little research into your extensive (and helpful!) AO3 bookmarks, which resulted in a bit of the fusions you mentioned enjoying in your letter. I do hope you enjoy this! 
> 
> This takes place about fifteen years in the future for all persons mentioned. 
> 
> This fic would simply not exist, certainly not in the form it has taken now, without the patient, manic, thoroughly delightful and well-researched support of they-who-must-not-be-named (until the reveal). PM and MC, you are the very best friends a humanoid could have during the vast wastelands of ficwriting attempts leading up to Yuletide, and were I capable of creating a profoundly exceptional dry martini (with or without a twist as you so choose) and shoving it through the tubes and pipes of Internet to land deliciously and without a single fallen drop onto the napkins of your heart, know that I would do so with the greatest (and possibly drunkest) of joys. I love you both.

The truly awful part about being a wizard was the aging. The _lack_ of aging. The horrifying bit where a wizard wakes up in the morning, pads to the loo, looks in the mirror and surprises himself into heart palpitations. 

Because he doesn't _look right_. 

Peter, in his great and perpetual misfortune as one of the Last Wizards In Europe, saw his eternal aging clock stop at the ripe old age of thirty-one. 

_Thirty-one._

His mum's friends on Leighton Road would still try to pinch his cheeks when he went 'round on Sunday for tea and extensive nagging. His mum had started giving him looks about five years back, but as he couldn't explain it and it wasn't entirely unusual for a forty-year-old man to have a young face, they always managed to talk around it rather than directly about it. 

Nightingale looked very sober on Peter's thirty-seventh birthday, when it became apparent that wrinkles were not a thing that was happening to his body. As even Nightingale didn't understand his own non-aging aging, there wasn't much he found to say other than to make a placid suggestion about perhaps growing facial hair. 

Peter had tried. It covered up his dimples and aged him a bit and he kept it going until Lesley said, "You look like a teenager trying to impress his mates." It wasn't even unkindly said, but the scruff was gone by the next day. 

He almost felt like a proper wizard now, what with practically half his life lived and worked out of the Folly. A proper copper, too: he had beats that he walked, folks he checked up on, a few confidential informants who were comfortable passing him bits of information if not the whole of the thing. There was still plenty Peter had to piece together on his own, even as much as he'd grown into his role. He'd become a Detective Constable, then Detective Sergeant--more from being the only police under his supervisor's command rather than any particular merit, but the pay rises and perks were nice. 

He felt forty on the inside, older even than that with the things he'd seen, not to mention the things he'd done and the decisions he'd had to make and all the lives affected as a result of his actions, his choices, for good or for ill. It weighed on him, and he understood more of what Nightingale had told him when he agreed to the apprenticeship, a good fifteen years past. And still Nightingale had a good century or so on him, which meant he'd so much yet to learn. 

So much to learn, like how to survive getting stuck in Heathrow with one's non-aging aging boss after being awakened from the first good sleep in more than three weeks of dealing with an insidious and remarkably durable gremlin infestation at an estate in Tottenham. And just as that really _good_ REM hit came, the mobile had gone off and Oh, dear, the Americans need help. Desperately. Immediately. And could Peter and Nightingale get on the red-eye and come _right now_.

Except the British Airways red-eye was officially three hours _late_ , and there wasn't enough tea in the world to keep Peter from sniping, "You know, if it weren't for you sending me to that bloody convention last year, we wouldn't be sitting here."

"It was not a convention. It was the first invitation we've had from the White Council to intermingle in seventy years."

"Intermingle," Peter snorted. "Polite talk for all of us standing around while the higher ups in _their_ club posture about how great they are, and _you_ stay at home and force me to play politics."

"Which you did so well, as they are now asking for our help."

" _They_ are not asking for our help," Peter said. " _Dresden_ is asking for our help."

"True," Nightingale conceded. "But he works for the Council."

"Kind of." If the gossip -- in Latin no less -- was accurate, it wasn't entirely clear that Dresden was working for _anyone_ except perhaps himself. He wore a Warden's cloak (wasn't that interesting) which was pinned closed with what appeared to be Winter's emblem (because there was apparently Winter and Summer but autumn and spring just didn't matter?) and spent most of his time on an island in a lake that wasn't on a map and could barely be found even when you were on the lake the island was purported to be on. 

If Peter hadn't already built up a tolerance for weird blokes that did magic, Dresden would push it. But he seemed nice enough--he made a point of shaking Peter's hand, cracking a few jokes at the Senior Council's expense, and talking in English, which won Peter over easy. 

And now Peter sat, questionably-brewed tea in a takeaway cup, watching the minutes tick by on the Departures board because he'd become friendly with that arsehole and owed him a favor. He said as much to Nightingale.

"Is that why we're here?" Nightingale asked.

"No, we're here because there are apparently dragons trying to break through in the Chicago Public Library, and they're doing so in the Fantasy section. And that's such a cliche I'm embarrassed for the man."

"What favor did he do you that feeds your wish to help him?"

"I said some possibly questionably polite things to the old blokes in the white robes, and some of them weren't pleased. Looked about ready to roast me, invited guest or no. Dresden took some of the heat off of me by saying...worse things."

"With that ringing endorsement, I'm not sure if I'm interested in meeting him or not," Nightingale commented. "You're bad enough, with plenty to look after."

"Ha bloody ha." Peter looked around the terminal and saw an old man sitting alone, a small satchel on his lap. He was reading a thick book and seemed very content. "Do Council wizards stop aging?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. The files and records they've shared with us have been about magical business, not personnel information."

"Dresden looks about mid-thirties on the outside, but there's a weight to him. Heavier even than what you carry."

Nightingale looked piqued. "How heavy a weight do I seem to carry, Peter?"

"The weight of a man who's been doing this for a hundred years."

"Not that long. I only know it's been seventy years since our last invitation because it was written down in a rather angry hand."

"The fellow they called the Merlin--honestly, now we're just living a T.H. White fever dream--did seem irritated by my attendance. He said something about hedge wizards, but Senior Council Listens-to-Wind shut him down quickly. More politics." Peter huffed a sigh, glancing at his mobile. He'd expected something from Lesley, maybe something from Bev -- their on-again, off-again thing was heading once more towards on-again -- but the screen was stubbornly blank. 

When he turned to look at Nightingale, the man wore a familiar smile on his face. It had taken nearly a decade, but the slight upturn of lips was more frequent now. Nightingale was more ready with a laugh, and some truly terrible puns. Peter couldn't regret it, even when the puns rhymed. 

For the millionth time, Peter wished apparating were real. It would be so much nicer if they could just blink and be where they needed to be without all this tedious travel. And especially without the typical Heathrow delays, which were caused as much by the traffic as the occasional malicious air sprite. They were ultimately harmless, but had never quite forgiven the Airports Commission for their proposal of a third runway. Sprites were remarkably political. 

Peter sipped the last of his mediocre tea, eyeing the plummy teabag at the bottom. He looked back at Nightingale, who was nearly his closest friend, in addition to being his Governor. It was a deep relief to see the man growing lighter, pulled into the 21st century inexorably by the revival of the magic, and Peter's relentless insistence on keeping up with modern policing. Self-isolating had got the Folly nothing but questionable access to terrible crime scenes they were unable to prevent. Peter made a point of going down the pub, being sociable, and gradually Nightingale had done the same, with the other Governors, the other Chief Inspectors. 

Hell, the only reason they could both justify coming on this trip to the States was because Detective Chief Inspector Stephanopoulos had agreed to watch their beat, keep a close eye out for their sort of funny business, and Lesley -- still beaten down by her decisions, but committed to the Folly in a way reminiscent of Molly's own devotion -- was skilled enough to handle anything small, and cordon off anything large. 

Glancing up, the Departures board held depressingly little new information, and Peter had half a mind to go to the Concorde Room VIP Lounge, where the sprites held court (and a hefty bar tab) to inquire as to whether they were staging a protest or just fucking around for jokes' sake. 

"Peter," said Nightingale, his hands clasped together, the familiar pensive expression on his face. 

"Yeah, Guv," Peter said, keeping one eye out for the distinctive ginger of Heathrow's Air Sprites.

"I know you've been...concerned, about your aging. I was too, when I began aging backwards. It's one thing to, to know yourself, to feel your age even if you were to live beyond your years." His mouth dipped into a grimace briefly, and Peter resisted the urge to throw a companionable arm around his shoulders. Give it another ten years and he'd get the man more comfortable with physical affection. 

"Yeah," Peter said, noncommittal. 

"I only want you to know that--well. I want you to know that you won't be alone, in this." Nightingale looked at him, directly in the eye, the grey of them clear and certain. "I won't leave you alone in this, not by choice. I would never--" Nightingale broke off, staring into the middle distance. He took a long breath before continuing. "It's an awful thing, to be by oneself in this. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, much less--you."

Peter's breath caught, grasping a bit -- more than a bit -- of what Nightingale was saying without saying anything. He'd been alone, all his mates dead or gone mad, as the magic inexplicably went away, as the world settled the balance against lives lost. There had only been Nightingale, one man against whatever was left. Joining the police, maintaining the Folly--they were stopgap measures. Until Peter had stumbled into his path, tugging Lesley like a child along with him. 

"You won't be alone either," Peter promised, and it felt true to say it; he didn't know where this life might lead, but he knew he'd be at Nightingale's side every step of the way. He knew it somewhere deep in his bones. 

Nightingale smiled again and Peter's breath caught. "I know that now," he said, with all the confidence of a police wizard who'd battled the darkness and survived. 

There was a loud squawk of the announcing system, and a voice that sounded a bit too much like Noel Fielding for Peter's taste. "Passengers," the voice said, "Heathrow Airport is pleased to announce that the disturbance on the runway has been cleared with very minimal loss of human life. Please prepare to resume normal operations; we will do our best to direct departures swiftly. Also, keep your bags with you at all times and report any suspicious persons to a member of Airport Security."

Peter breathed out a sigh of relief. They could finally get going. He was looking forward to seeing Dresden again -- the man was funny and had also read all of Discworld -- and maybe getting one of those deep dish pizzas the telly shows were always on about. It looked more like a calzone to Peter, but he'd happily devour his share. 

"Oh," Nightingale said, reaching down into his briefcase to pull out a file, winding out the red thread and opening the flap, "I forgot to mention--since we'll already have made the trip to America, I thought it might be prudent to follow up on some notes left by my predecessor. They're horribly out of date, and this seems like an excellent opportunity to update the file."

"Great," Peter said. He'd feel more enthusiastic if they were already winging their way over the Atlantic. Right now, anything further than a beer and some cheese biscuits in first class (Nightingale had collected an outrageous number of points on his credit card over the years) seemed entirely too exhausting. "Where do you want to go, then?"

"It appears to be a small desert community, near Desert Bluffs," Nightingale said, thumbing through the old mimeographed pages and and faded, hand-written papers. "I believe it's called -- ah! there it is -- Night Vale. A most unusual place."

"It can't be weirder than London," Peter said, repressing a yawn and perking up when the screen at their gate finally flipped to "boarding." 

"I find it's best not to make such bold claims," said Nightingale, and they picked up their bags and got in the queue.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. [Peter Grant](https://40.media.tumblr.com/7f416c0630f536709d55b2dc9411ecd1/tumblr_nzvys7nqvs1r32rgeo2_540.jpg) (Trevor Noah) and [Thomas Nightingale](https://56.media.tumblr.com/1b9ebc09b3e7d25ad413c5b1a8ce8f51/tumblr_nzvys7nqvs1r32rgeo1_540.jpg) (Paul McGann). 
> 
> 2\. If you have never been to Heathrow, I encourage you to pray to whatever deity you find most efficient that you never have to do so. You will go crazy, and repeat "my baggage...where's my baggage..." over an over again until you finally leave that overcrowded labyrinth and bonus level of Dante's Hell. 
> 
> 3\. [Harry Dresden](https://41.media.tumblr.com/ad951db0ccb05c3e84b09a24479f7ece/tumblr_nzvyyvgYib1r32rgeo1_540.jpg) \-- no, wait, [_Harry Dresden_](https://40.media.tumblr.com/fab390d90315e46a238570d9b1aa2bb7/tumblr_nzvyyvgYib1r32rgeo2_500.jpg) (Lee Pace). Also, [a brief introduction to the White Council and why T.H. White would roll his eyes right out of his head](http://tvtropes.org/pmwiki/pmwiki.php/Characters/TheDresdenFilesTheWhiteCouncil).
> 
> 4\. Welcome to [Night Vale](http://www.welcometonightvale.com/). Please don't forget to complete all your wizarding paperwork in advance and in triplicate, make sure the scientists are aware that you will be routinely bending the laws of physics (ask for Carlos), and do remember to tip your librarians.
> 
> 5\. "Welcome to the Hellmouth" is the inaugural episode of [Buffy the Vampire Slayer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hmoU05_Fr5A), whose protagonist I think would laugh at Nightingale's puns. Further additions are merely accurate representations of intercontinental flight.


End file.
